The Reichenbach Fallout
by DKAllayna
Summary: A month after Sherlock's supposed death, John learns how to move on as he finally begins to accept the loss of his best friend. Sherlock, watching from afar, decides it's finally time to leave London- and John- behind. One-shot, post Reichenbach Fall.


**A/N: **

**Hi there! So, this is my first Sherlock story, which is basically my take on the aftermath of The Reichenbach Fall. For now it's a one-shot, but it may develop into a longer story if I get enough positive feedback. Please favorite if you like it and drop me a review!**

* * *

"My best friend... Sherlock Holmes... is dead."

It has taken me a whole month to accept this fact. I saw Sherlock's dead body at my feet; I read the news articles; I accepted the condolences of Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, and Molly; but I until now I was still convinced that Sherlock was out there, somewhere. I would sit in our- my- flat and stare at the door, waiting for the moment when the tall, slender figure would burst through, declaring that Lestrade had requested his help on another case or groaning about the general stupidity of mankind.

He never did come through those doors.

Mrs. Hudson would hover over me, hands fluttering anxiously, unsure what to do with me. She brought me tea and biscuits and meals, since I got up only rarely, and she would stay in the room, dusting and re-dusting. By unspoken consent, she continued to brush the dust off Sherlock's things, but she never picked them up or moved them. Never once during this period of time did she pull her usual "I'm not your housekeeper, dear."

Exactly one month after Sherlock... Well, she finally decided that she was tired of watching me sit around and waste my life. My alarm bells went off the moment she sat down in front of me, regarding me with a serious, concerned expression. I transferred my gaze from the door to the woman sitting before me, but otherwise I didn't react.

"John," she began hesitantly. Only able to summon up a faint curiosity, I blinked at her and lifted an eyebrow. She waited a moment before continuing on.

"John, you haven't left the flat in forever, and I know you were close to Sherlock, but life goes on. You need to get out and do something again. You can't just sit around waiting for Sherlock to come back, because he never will."

"Sherlock is going to come back," I replied with confidence that I didn't exactly feel. The days immediately following Sherlock's jump, I had been totally confident, completely assured that Sherlock was going to walk through the door of the apartment. As time went on, however, my confidence waned, until I was clinging on to the very last shred of hope. It had been a month; if Sherlock was going to waltz back into our lives, he should have done it already. Still, there was a small possibility of him returning.

With some surprise, I felt the words catch in my throat, and my voice came out hoarse. How long had it been since I had used it last?

"Dear... Sherlock is dead," Mrs. Hudson reminded me gently. Even swimming in denial as I was, I had to admit that nobody but Mrs. Hudson could deliver shocking news like that in such a kind way.

My eyes began to open then. When I saw Sherlock's grave... no, when I saw his body, it was like I had closed my eyes against the possibility of his death, but the seeds of doubt had already been planted. Mrs. Hudson was beginning to remove the veil of denial I had placed around myself- she was beginning to confirm my suspicions. Naturally, I struggled against it, but once the suspicion was there, there was no way of getting rid of it.

"You're wrong," I told her, but I could hear my voice reveal my confusion. What if she was right? What if Sherlock never was going to walk through those doors again? ...What if I was all alone? Again?

Mrs. Hudson, seeming to sense my inner turmoil, reached out and took one of my hands between both of hers.

"I know it hurts, but sooner or later you will have to acknowledge the truth," she said to me, squeezing my hand gently. Then, moving too swiftly for a woman her age, she dropped my hand again and rose to her feet. Her next words were spoken at a normal volume, in her usual bordering-on-brusque manner. "I called your therapist, and she said she can meet you tomorrow at 1:30. That should give you enough time to freshen up." Out of the corner of my eye, I observed her watching me as if she expected me to disagree; she seemed almost disappointed when I only nodded obediently.

That's how I made it to this point, today.

"You've lost friends before in Afghanistan, John. Why is Sherlock any different?" my therapist points out, not unkindly. I've been sitting in her office for almost an hour now, enduring her "gentle" probing with a stoicness that neither of us had known me to possess.

I think about this one, long and hard. She doesn't pry or demand answers, for which I am grateful.

"I don't know," I admit after thinking for some time. _He's Sherlock,_ I think with conviction, but I know my therapist wouldn't accept that as a valid answer.

"Keep thinking about it, then," she tells me. I really don't want to- thinking about Sherlock, I have discovered, is exceedingly painful- but, lacking the strength to resist, I nod my head anyway.

"Why does it matter?" I want to know, my voice inflectionless but my curiosity genuine.

"It will be easier for you to accept his death once you understand why you miss him so much," she assures me. Some part of me wonders if this is true, if it will ever become easier to think about Sherlock, but I'm too tired and too lonely to ask.

"Can I go now?"

"You're free to leave whenever you wish, John. Please speak to my receptionist on your way out so you can schedule your next appointment."

I rise slowly to my feet and start for the door. To my surprise, pain blooms within my right leg when I extend it, but I grimly ignore it as I limp downstairs to the reception area. I walk over to the receptionist's desk and hesitate in front of it. There is a person sitting behind the desk; I can't quite see her face, as it is hidden behind a computer screen, but I can hear the rhythmic_ tap tap_ of the computer keys. I clear my throat, slightly pointedly, and the _tap tap_ sound stops abruptly.

A young woman peers around the edge of the computer screen, gazing up at me with large brown eyes that gleam with intelligence. Her platinum blonde hair is swept back into a high ponytail, and a pair of glasses balance delicately on the bridge of her nose. With her glasses and rather severe hairstyle, she would have seemed to be very sharp and stern if one doesn't take in her countenance. Her reflective brown eyes (which appear larger than usual because they are magnified by the glasses, I realize now) are set atop her slender facial features, which all gently sloping planes and few sharp edges. She has touched up her lips and eyes with only slight amounts of makeup, and I am honestly rather glad that she hadn't chosen to cake her face in makeup, like most women seem to do these days. She smiles at me now, a small, gentle smile that appears rather shy, but very sweet nonetheless.

"Can I help you?" she queries softly; even her words are rhythmic and lilting, almost musical. For the first time in over a year, all thoughts of Sherlock are driven out of my mind, and I see nothing but the woman sitting in front of me. Even the depression that has been clenching my chest in a vice grip for the past month has finally lessened, although I doubt it will ever disappear completely. For I know now that Sherlock is gone forever, and looking into the receptionist's sweet brown eyes, I find myself utterly captivated.

Her brows contract slightly, and it occurs to me that she is waiting for an answer.

"Oh, right, yes- Dr. Bennett wanted me to schedule another appointment?" I manage to blurt out. It takes a moment, but a smile comes to my lips. It feels odd, as if the muscles in my cheeks are stiff from lack of use.

"Of course." She turns back to her computer, her brown eyes darting back down to the screen. "Your name, please?"

"John Watson."

She doesn't start typing immediately, as I expect her to; instead, she looks up at me again, her chocolate-colored eyes widening with surprise. Her gaze locks with mine and I see recognition flickering through her brown optics. In that moment, I can tell that she knows who I am (there are few people who haven't read my blog, thanks to Sherlock's recent publicity), but, again to my surprise, she doesn't comment on it. Her lovely gaze softens with warm compassion, and I have to look away to keep from losing my calm exterior.

"I'm sorry for your loss," she says gently, and I can only nod in gratitude. She watches me for another moment before she turns back to her computer.

It doesn't take long to schedule an appointment, but afterward I find myself hesitating to go home. The receptionist offers me another kind smile as I turn to leave, and I can't help but glance back and ask her one more question.

"What's your name?"

She is cleaning her glasses on a small piece of fabric when I turn around, but she pauses when I speak again. Her lovely brown eyes flash back up to me, and a secretive smile flickers across her expression.

"Mary," she answers simply before transferring her gaze back to her glasses; I swear her smile widened when she looked back down. With one slender hand, however, she picks something up off her desk and slides it toward me. It's a business card with her name- _Mary Morstan_- and a phone number written on it. I pick it up and slip it into my pocket with my own faint smile as I turn away and exit the building.

* * *

By now, Sherlock Holmes is all too used to hiding after having done nothing else for the past month. Being Sherlock, it didn't take him long at all to perfect anything he put his mind to. It is almost second nature at this point for him to pick the darkest shadow to hide in, the least used alleyway to watch from, and the least conspicuous clothes to wear. It had disappointed him to trade in his favorite suits and scarves for jeans and sweaters (which rather forcefully reminded him of John) and baseball caps. Molly had gone so far as to advise him on how to stand, as apparently he stood "too straight" otherwise, and she had told him to slouch and walk with less "grace" and "poise." He trusts her judgment, though, because he can't afford to stand out in a crowd. Not anymore.

The door across the street- the one Sherlock had been watching, before he had slunk into his mind palace- swings open, and, hidden within the darker shadows of an alleyway opposite the building, he snaps back to attention. Even from across the street, he can recognize the figure of John Watson. He feels himself relax inexplicably- it is always a relief for him to see John alive and well, especially since he had rarely left the apartment as of late. This relief, however, is combined with another emotion that he can't exactly identify. It's as if someone has reached into his chest and grabbed his heart, squeezing it hard, but that is a totally ridiculous idea. Such things don't happen.

Sherlock doesn't like the feeling one bit. He knows what it means; he just doesn't want to think about it.

He shakes off his own speculations so he can watch John as he waits for a cab. Sherlock's friend- his true friend, his best friend, the one that can't know the truth- has deteriorated rapidly in health since Sherlock's "death". Even from this distance, he can see the clothes hanging loosely off John's thinner frame, and he can imagine the deep circles under his eyes, a tribute to his sleepless nights. And- perhaps worst of all- he seems to be limping again. Sherlock has no uncertainty as to why John is limping again; he has accepted fully that John's decline in health is completely his fault. But he trusts John. He knows that the former army doctor will pull himself back together again and move on. Sherlock just isn't sure that _he_ will.

Sherlock watches silently as a cab pulls up in front of his friend and John climbs into it; he almost hopes that John will look around and spot him within the shadows, but to his dismay and relief, John doesn't look back. He exhales heavily through his nose as the cab drives off. _Goodbye, John._

He knows that it will be a long, long time before he sees his friend again. If he ever does.

He kneels down and picks up a large, leather duffel bag that has been sitting on the ground nearby. Making sure to slump and shuffle, he steps out of the alley and flags down another cab. He shoots a surreptitious glance around him before he steps into the cab and directs the driver to the airport.


End file.
